Part Time
by Jynxed Keyboard
Summary: "What is Mako's side job? Sewing sweaters for children, playing jazz piano at a retirement home, or making lightning at a power plant?" Nickelodeon asks. The answer should be obvious. Domestic gen!fluff.


**Part Time**

"What is Mako's side job? Sewing sweaters for children, playing jazz piano at a retirement home, or making lightning at a power plant?" Thank the Korra trivia quiz on for this. Might make this a series by adding other ridiculous side jobs Mako can do—please suggest!

Disclaimer: Legend of Korra was created by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. I am neither of these creative minds.

…

On Saturdays, Mako sews. Bolin's hands are too thick, too earthy, to grasp the swiftness necessary for the needle. It's alright, because Bolin smiles quicker; his charm drives a hard bargain, and he always comes home with great material.

But it's not the holes in their socks or the fringes of their vests that receive those choice fabrics. No, those are for another day, when it's raining or when one of them has a cold. Sewing is one of the few things that are actually relaxing to Mako, and Bolin sleeps easier when he gets lost in the patterns his brother's thread creates.

On theses Saturdays, however, he doesn't mend. He creates.

The first time he'd ever done this was on accident, really. Skoochy had come to him with pants in need of fixing—the other boys had often made fun of Mako for having such a "girly" skill—but Mako recognized a lost cause when the pants barely reached past Skoochy's knees.

"You're gonna need something better for winter…" Soon the boys realized appreciation paid better than scoffing pride. Skoochy always had the best ways to pay back for his work: fists full of ("borrowed") yuans, buns stuffed with sweet pork, kicks to the shin if fellow street rats were skeptical of Mako's needle. Those were good times. The two of them will never leave those days behind.

So the second, third, fourth, fifth time after Skoochy's new pants (he still wears them, though they're patched beyond recognition they still fit like a charm), these creations aren't accidents. They're meant for kids like Mako and Bolin, kids who are down on their luck and need someone to watch their backs.

On Sundays, Mako and Bolin deliver hand-knit sweaters.

…

On Tuesdays, Mako leaves the arena early. It's taken him some time to work out a schedule, but Bolin sleeps in on Tuesdays due to exhausting late-night practices and Toza is out buying groceries.

It's a twenty minute commute, but the applause and gentle appreciation of his craft make it worth it. Smiling faces, approval radiating off the audience in waves, this is what makes Tuesdays so special to Mako.

Plus, they have some pretty great Jasmine tea.

When Mako strolls through the doors, there is always someone anticipating his arrival. "How old are you now, Mako? You look so mature!" Some of his audience has seen him since he was twelve and trembling. Now he's almost eighteen, but he still laughs sheepishly at their compliments. "Not too old. Toza still won't let us sign the Fire Ferrets up as an official team."

"Back in my day, there was no such thing as wussy pro-bending nonsense—"

Of course, there are always a few dissenters in the crowd. But behind these doors, there are no politics between benders and nonbenders, not truly. One of the women claims to be a descendant of a Kiyoshi warrior—she's quick to hit the man voicing his opinion on the back of his head, but their eyes shine mischievously behind mock-glares. Mako speaks up because he knows exactly what to say. "Pro-bending is my way of keeping close to my parents. When I'm out there in the arena it's like I'm remembering all my best memories about my father." Firebending isn't terrifying in the ring. He learns to place this feeling later.

They don't exactly know that Mako had yet to play an official match. They fawn over him anyway, and Mako is happy with the comfortable-uncomfortable squeeze in his chest, until someone calls him over with a knowing wink. "She's ready for you, kid."

A few steps to the makeshift stage are quite a challenge, as his audience shuffles into place and men pat him on the back and create a general ruckus. In those steps he decides what to play, usually because he can hear some of the ladies idly musing if he will play their favorite song. Some days, though, he has a song in mind, and it flows like flames over his fingers.

He'd wandered into this place when he was twelve and desperate for food. Finding a job at twelve was like asking to meet the Avatar—hard to even envision. They'd spent the last few months hiding under the tinted windows of high-class bars and lounges, coughing out heavy, scented smoke, rummaging through the garbage, and filling their ears with jazz. Mama used to tinker away at a piano in their living room. It was natural, then, for Mako to set himself up on the stool and tinker around a melody that had been haunting him through those long nights.

They sigh when his songs are sad, and they're delighted when he learns something upbeat. Jazz pours straight out of his soul into keys that should be foreign to a dirty street orphan but they're so achingly familiar, so worth the bare-minimum paycheck he receives for a couple hours of entertainment. Tuesdays are still his favorite days. Even if he's playing for a bunch of old-timers.


End file.
